


In Which a Very Convenient Love-Seat Makes for a Fascinating Shore Leave

by LieutenantSaavik



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M, that's it. we've got two characters & that's it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 12:18:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14769476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LieutenantSaavik/pseuds/LieutenantSaavik
Summary: shit's up in the title, folks. set just after the episode Shore Leave, while the Enterprise crew is still chilling out on that planet that can create whatever you want to see.





	In Which a Very Convenient Love-Seat Makes for a Fascinating Shore Leave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daisyridley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisyridley/gifts).



> The first draft of this was written a long time ago, long enough that we both forgot about it, by user daisyridley and me. I dug it back up and finalised it, so here goes!

Jim is tired, more than he thought possible. This peculiar shore leave has worn him out incredibly quickly.

He is carefully avoiding thinking of people. He does not need-- _anyone_. He doesn't need anyone.

He leaves out a soft chuckle, wondering if the hours he spent with ‘Ruth’ would have been more pleasant if she'd given him a back massage.

Damn, that was an awkward moment. With some luck, Spock will have forgotten about it by the time he gets back.

“Captain?”

He turns his head in a rush, feeling his still-twinging back protest at the sudden movement.

“ _Spock_? What are you doing here?”

His first officer is pacing toward him. His hair is ruffled in the slight breeze.

Jim gets up, telling himself to keep it together.

Spock only speaks when they're very close. Neither of them has ever been a fan of personal space, at least not when the other was concerned.

“Captain, I wish to speak to you about something you said to me earlier today.”

He knows exactly where this is heading, and he's not sure he's ready for it.  “Yes, Mr. Spock? Is it about my fight with my old classmate? Because I can assure you--" He tries to direct the conversation somewhere else, but he knows Spock won't be dissuaded.

"Specifically,” Spock continues, as if he hasn't even spoken, “The -- I believe you referred to it as a kink in your back?”

“Right,” Jim says efficiently, rubbing his hands together. “Well, my back is perfectly fine now, thank you for asking.”

“Although I am glad your back is well, Captain, that is not entirely what I wished to speak to you about. The implication of the interaction that passed this morning was that you wished I, rather than Yeoman Barrows, were the one giving you a back massage. Do you wish me to give you a back massage, sir?”

Jim takes an extra moment to process all of Spock’s words. He starts to speak, aborts the gesture, and swallows his words, lapsing back into silence.

“Sir, I don't believe giving a back massage is in the requirements for my duties as a science officer.” Spock seems genuinely troubled, and Jim realizes that he actually _beamed down_ to the planet to say this. It must have bothered him _the whole day_.

His mouth opens and closes twice before he can find the correct words to say. “Ye-es. I know. The thing is, Mr. Spock, I thought you… didn't mind doing your personal friend a favor.”

Now it’s Spock’s turn to be taken aback. “Is giving back massages a requirement for a human friendship?”

“Well, Mr. Spock, it might just be considered an, uh, a personal courtesy.”

“Well, Captain, touch for Vulcans is frighteningly intimate. To… prod… at someone’s back in such a manner would be considered incredibly odd, if not... unconventionally sexual.”

Jim flounders for a response. “Right.” _Unconventionally sexual???_ “Sorry for suggesting it, then.”

Of all the ways Jim believed he would spend his shore leave, talking with his science officer about back massages in the middle of a grass field was dead last. But he was, in fact, talking about back massages, and Spock was, in fact, here, having beamed down with far more ease than he had before. Jim had been glad to see him… until this incredibly awkward conversation had begun.

He tunes back in to what Spock is saying.

“... and, Captain, I assume you were simply not aware?”

“Of the implications of the statement. Right. And of course not. If I had been, I would not have said anything of the sort.”

“Well,” Spock says, inching closer to Jim on the grass, “I didn’t say I would be averse to such an… interaction.”

Once again, speech seems to be outside Jim’s abilities. “Well, uh, if you want to give me a back massage, you can, then?”

“Very well. Do you wish to remove your shirt? You didn’t seem to have a problem with finding yourself half-shirtless 2.37 hours ago today.”

Jim gapes at him. Then he remembers that Spock has seen him shirtless before, and surely it’s not _that_ big of a deal.

“Uh, Sure. Thank you; I will -- I will lay it down here, then.”

He never felt so self-conscious in his entire life, but then, he also never undressed with the prospect of being massaged by his first officer before.

Spock just stands there. Waiting. Expressionless.

“Should I… uh. Should I sit down?”

“I believe it would be convenient if you did.”

 _How is Spock not embarrassed? Well, of course he’s not embarrassed._ Jim almost laughs aloud at the sheer absurdity of the situation.

“Where is the location of the kink, Captain?” Spock asks, as the two men sit down in the stunningly soft grass.

Jim tries incredibly hard not to snort at how the sentence sounds out-of-context. “Between my shoulders. A bit further down.”

The feeling of Spock’s fingers across his back -- his shirtless back, no less -- is incredibly odd. It’s unfamiliar, intimate, and, though he tries to deny it, ever-so-slightly arousing.

He bites his lip. “A little further down, please. That’s good. Thank you. There, right there.”

Spock gently starts to push his fingers into the skin of Jim’s back. He’s a good massager, but Jim feels strangely vulnerable, awkward in his own skin. “Um, hey,” he says, after a couple seconds.

“Yes, sir?” Spock removes his fingers from his back. _Do they linger there, a little longer than necessary for such an efficient Vulcan?_ He brushes the thoughts from his mind.

“Maybe we should go somewhere else. I’m sure this would be a bit of a strange image, were anyone else to come over the hill right now.”

“If you would like privacy, that copse of trees 48.6 degrees to our left would suffice.”

“Sounds wonderful, Mr. Spock.”

He gets up, offers Spock his hand, who takes it and stands with him. “Shall we go then, Captain?”

“Yes. Right.”

They head off to the small group of trees and bushes, everything around them lush, verdant, surreal. Spock steps ahead, pushing aside a flowering bush to reveal a small sandy clearing, enclosed and surrounded by plants on all sides. Strangely enough, waiting for them directly in the center of the clearing is an odd combination between a couch and a bench, ever-so-slightly too small for two people to sit without touching. It clearly wasn’t there before.

Jim almost blushes, immediately recognising it as an Earth loveseat. Spock, however, has no knowledge of what the bench is. “Shall we sit, then, Captain?”

“We’re on shore leave, Spock. Just call me Jim.”

“Very well, Jim.” He settles on the loveseat and Jim slides in next to him, their shoulders brushing lightly. Spock turns to him and quirks an eyebrow. “Shall we recommence?”

“Sure.” Jim shifts around, exposing his back.

“Would you mind informing me a second time of the location of the kink?” Spock asks, but instead of hesitating as he did before, he places his fingers on Jim’s back and starts to trail them down his spine and across his bare shoulder blades, roving gently, as if Jim’s back is some sort of foreign territory he wishes to understand.

Jim sinks back into it, relaxing his muscles as Spock’s fingers continue to roam. It feels good, really fucking _good_ , and the second he realises he’s always wanted this physical contact with his first officer, he realises he wants _more_ of it.

He leans back further, pushing his back into Spock’s fingers, which gain confidence and massage him firmer and harder, down his back and up it, almost playing occasionally with the waistband of his pants. Jim wants Spock to pull him closer, to press flush against him, and he tries hard to keep the thoughts out of his head. But he can’t, not when Spock’s so close, when his fingers are all across his back and waist, when there are only inches between them--

Spock speaks. “I have judged that you have found the experience pleasurable. Is the kink in your back gone?”

“Yes.”

A silence falls.

“Mr.--Mr. Spock,” Jim starts. Then the sentence dies.

“Yes, Jim?”

Jim would like to ask _why_ exactly Spock’s hands have found his hips, but he finds himself lacking air to breathe. He knows he must turn his head. He knows Spock is waiting. He knows what's about to happen, as soon as he turns.

His heart is throbbing with trepidation.

He thought he'd spend two days with the false Ruth automaton. He certainly didn't imagine he would end up spending them with the very real Spock.

It can't be happening. The realization has yet to sink in.

“Jim,” Spock murmurs to the back of his neck, making his body hair rise as goosebumps break out.

Slowly, he turns and looks at Spock. Their eyes meet, Spock’s as fathomless and dark as space itself. “I have analysed this situation,” he says quietly. “I believe we both know the only rational next step.”

Jim knows. He knows he knows and he knows Spock knows. Carefully, he places one hand onto Spock’s back and inches closer, resting the other hand on Spock’s waist before leaning close to his face. Spock shifts to accommodate the more intimate touch, settling his hands again on Jim’s hips and meeting his eyes, still calm -- but somewhere behind the dark, dark brown is a glimmer of curiosity. Jim grips Spock slightly harder, tugs him closer, and finally closes the achingly small gap between them, planting a kiss just off-center on the corner of Spock’s mouth.

Spock reacts immediately, and he’s ten times more responsive than Jim thought he would be, moving his hands up Jim’s torso and around his back and centering the kiss, pushing against him to be closer until they are practically chest-to-chest. The kiss deepens and Spock makes a small surprised sound, pulling back for a moment -- just a moment -- and then kissing his captain more passionately still. Jim takes everything Spock gives and returns it in kind, slipping his hands under the edges of Spock’s shirt as Spock’s hands travel up and down his back. He closes his eyes, _feels_ the kiss, feels it get messier and heavier -- and then he breaks it off suddenly, heart pumping, needing air.

Spock sits back, dizzied, blushing green all over his face. Jim can practically hear their heartbeats echoing between them, both going a mile a minute. Then Spock leans forward and Jim leans forward and they’re kissing again, this time even more frenetic, hands and bodies needy for each other, for physical contact and skin on skin, and Jim is lost in it for several moments, heady joy thrumming desperately through his veins. He drapes himself over Spock and Spock allows it, leaning back with Jim on top of him until they’re practically horizontal on the loveseat, Jim’s thigh resting between Spock’s legs. And for a moment -- for a long, hungry, insistent, passionately physical moment -- they are the only joy the other needs.

Then Jim hears a voice right outside the clearing.

It’s muffled, distant; he doesn’t pay much attention to it.

It’s familiar, though. And it’s calling for him.

“Captain, are you here?”

They end the kiss with one last peck on the lips -- two last pecks -- three last pecks -- and as they sit back up, Spock’s hands stay, lax, on Jim’s hips.

“I’m here!” Jim shouts back.

He hears someone approaching, while the confusingly familiar voice still speaks. “You were not answering your commun--”

The speaker stops mid-word as soon as he sees the two lovebirds on the bench. He abruptly halts, and his shoulders slump.

His eyes have never been as wide and as completely, absolutely bewildered as they are now, while his arms dangle at his sides and his head ever-so-slightly cranes, as if he wants to take a closer look.

Jim barks a laugh and gets on his feet. Looking up at an unfixed point, as if he was talking to a god, he raises his hands and exclaims, “I didn’t ask for another one! One’s enough!”

He’s chuckling. Of all of what he thought about Spock during the last few minutes, they must have produced a duplicate to send to him without realizing that Spock was already there. He’s already foretasting Spock’s amused reply: _Captain, I did not realize these were your wishes_ , but the Spock right next to him doesn’t talk.  
His duplicate, on the other hand, does.

“Captain… I am the real Spock.”

Jim looks at him. His arms, still raised, slowly flop down. His fingers twitch. His voice comes out strangled: “…You… are the real one.”

Spock nods at his other self, still sitting on the bench. “That is an automaton,” he murmurs. Jim is only slightly relieved to hear that the real Spock is as mortified as he is.

“I thought it was you,” he whispers, eating the words to pronounce them as quickly as possible.

Spock takes in a breath. “The resemblance is… remarkable. I never… I never believed such a thing possible. Nevertheless… that is indeed... a replica.”

Their eyes meet and immediately skitter away from each other. The automaton does not move.

Silence stretches on.  
Spock clears his throat. “May I ask what, um.”

Jim has seldom heard him stutter. It’s not a good sign.

“May I ask what you were doing?”

Spock has made the mistake of looking at his duplicate as he posed the question, and the latter takes it as a hint to finally talk. “I believe the correct phrase would be ‘making out.’”

Jim turns to face him, red as a redshirt’s uniform. “Why would you say that?!”

“I am Vulcan,” the thing replies, as if it were obvious. “I am incapable of lying.”

“You’re a robot!” he argues back.

“I have been modelled on your knowledge of the real Mr. Spock.”

“I am not certain it’s flawless characterization, Captain,” the real Spock murmurs with an awkward cough. His eyebrow is elevated to a practically impossible angle on his forehead.

Another silence falls.

“Go away,” Jim tells the automaton. It nods, stands, and leaves the clearing in short, eerily Spock-like steps, barely rustling the leaves on its way out.

“So…” Jim starts. He scratches the back of his neck. “Um, I’m sorry. I thought that was… really you. I’m really -- I don’t-” He falls silent, trying hard to read Spock’s expression. “I know I made you uncomfortable. I’m -- I’m really, really sorry.”

“It was certainly… surprising.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I bet it was,” he says into the tense silence. He must redeem himself somehow. He must make him understand that he wouldn't have done it, had he known. “Spock?”

Spock must have sensed his tentative tone, because he looks at him with more openness; for the first time today, he's more curious than embarrassed. He's just waiting. “Yes, Jim?”

“I'd rather discuss thermodynamics laws for five hours with you than do… _anything_ with one of your duplicates. I would _never_ substitute you.”

“Noted, Captain.”

Jim tries to read if Spock is happy, sad, distressed, angry, and comes up with nothing. This time, he’s truly impassive. He turns to where the automaton was just sitting and sighs. “I should have known when he called me Jim.”

“Perhaps so, Captain.” Spock places the tips of his fingers against each other and regards Jim contemplatively. “I imagine your… desires manifested themselves here quite vividly. I knew such interactions seemed to suit you, but I never imagined it would be with--”

“Spock, please,” Jim stops him. “That's enough. You don't have to turn the knife in the wound like that. Let's just forget about this.”

“Is this what you want?” Spock asks. His voice is neutral, calming Jim’s whirling thoughts by sheer virtue of existing.

“Isn't that what you want?” he returns, attempting Spock’s careful tone.

“I simply wish to understand you. I need to know for certain,” Spock explains softly, and Jim understands: the man doesn't know how it works. Humans have strange desires and even stranger courting habits. Of course he wants to know what is happening. If he were in Spock’s place, he’d have no idea where to begin.

“Well then, Spock,” he starts calmly. “I will satisfy your need for information, I suppose.” He breathes deeply while Spock waits for him to talk. “I like you. As more than a friend. And no, I don't just want to have sex with you -- these robots misunderstood my intentions. I never told you because I wanted to…” he touches the bridge of his nose, trying to come up with the right words. “Go gently. Wait and see. And if something else had come out of our friendship, I would have been happy. But shit -- _shit_ , Spock, I never wanted anything to happen like this.”

Spock’s eyebrow, which has since calmed, flicks up again at the profanity. “It has been a long time since I was truly surprised, Captain. This shore leave has certainly been an interesting one.”

Jim almost smiles. “Certainly interesting,” he echoes.

Spock looks as if he’s steeling himself to say something either very daring or very stupid. “This planet…” he begins. “This planet,” he restarts, gaining confidence, “Is designed to give each inhabitant whatever they want. Therefore, I carefully assume that what just occurred here between you and my double was your desire and your desire alone, since these automatons have little depth. And since this ‘making out’ appears to have been your desire, I think it rational to tell you mine.”

Jim powerfully considers jumping off the nearest available cliff. “Which is?”

“Do you know how Vulcans kiss, Captain?”

Jim catches his breath. “No, Mr. Spock. I don’t.”

“If you are receptive to the idea -- if you are interested -- I could show you.”

Jim doesn’t know what else to offer other than a weak and scratchy, “Really?”

“Indeed. While far from the passion of human kissing, it is nonetheless affecting. Moving, even.”

“I’m sure,” he manages.

“Were we to try, I believe we would both find the experience pleasant.”

Jim takes a measured two breaths before voicing his question. “Are you offering for us to Vulcan-kiss, Mr. Spock?”

Spock looks at him, smiling ever-so-slightly. “I am.”

“So you feel the same way?” Jim asks, needing to understand, to be _sure_ , because if he fucks this up -- god, he doesn’t even want to think about what would happen if he fucks this up.

“I believe I have made my own intentions clear by now,” Spock tells him, and there’s a definite note of amusement in his voice.

“Well, if I may ask, how do Vulcans kiss?”

“Like this.”

Spock takes Jim’s hand and gently presses their fingers together, tip to tip, resting against each other like the two balanced forces of a bridge. It is a single movement, utterly simple and by human standards incredibly chaste, but there is an intimacy to it, a trust in it, that Jim has never felt. He lets his breath burn in his lungs for a moment, not even wanting to exhale or move. Instead, he takes in Spock’s face, observes every feature, draws into his memory the sloping eyebrows, sharp nose, thin lips, and perfectly-cut hair -- all of it strange and alien, perhaps, but nonetheless beautiful. _No; he’s beautiful_ because _of his strangeness_ , Jim realises in a rush, _Rather than in spite of it._

Spock withdraws his hand after a moment and tilts his head at Jim, a small unspoken question.

“That was wonderful,” Jim tells him, pinning his eyes fiercely with his gaze. “I -- thank you, Spock. I don’t -- I hope --” _It felt right_ , he wants to say. _Incredibly right._

Perhaps Spock understands his unspoken words, because his smile widens, almost to the point of a grin. _It’s stunning_ , Jim feels in a rush. _I love him._

“They’ll be wanting us back on the bridge shortly, Captain,” Spock says, smile waning, already swallowing his display of affection.

“Yes. Of course.” Jim opens his mouth and closes it again, trying to read Spock, trying to figure him out. “What is it? Is there something?”

“I need to think,” Spock says quietly, turning and leading the way out of the clearing. “We need to do as you said. Go gently. There is no logical sense in rushing.”

“I understand. It’s new, it’s strange -- I’m human -- I don’t even know what this is like on Vulcan. If you’re uncomfortable, Spock; if _any_ of this is uncomfortable for you-”

“I just need to think,” Spock insists. “You are correct, Captain -- Jim. This is uncharted territory, and logic is… uncertain. However, whatever this becomes, and whatever form the connection between us takes, it is a journey I am willing to take with you, by your side. Along whichever trajectory it follows.”

While delivered in the typical Spocklike fashion, Jim can sense the depth of feeling behind the words, emotion kept carefully at bay. He smiles to himself at the knowledge that he’s finally figuring his first officer out. “You know what, Mr. Spock? I’ll take it.”

Spock pauses in his walk, turns to Jim, and shakes his head. “You are so incredibly human.”

“Yeah?” Jim chuckles, knowing exactly what to say next. “And so are you.” After a second of deliberation, he lightly drapes his arm around Spock’s shoulder.

Spock replies by tangling Jim’s fingers with his own, very briefly, before turning to look at the sky. Instead of responding, he opens his communicator. “Two to beam up, Mr. Scott.”


End file.
